


A Touch of Peace

by ParadiseAvenger



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Caretaking, Chronic Pain, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Massage, The Scorch Trials - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:42:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28861986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadiseAvenger/pseuds/ParadiseAvenger
Summary: Newt was clearly doing all he could to stifle the sounds slipping from his mouth. Occasionally, his slim fingers worked to rub out the agony in his shattered leg, but that only brought a renewed wave of muffled pain-filled sounds.“But… you were trying to rub it… would massage help?”“Don't rightly know,” Newt mumbled. “Can't bring myself to press where it bloody hurts so badly.”“Can I try?” Thomas asked.
Relationships: Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 134





	A Touch of Peace

I, as usual, am late to a fandom and was still surprised not to see this kind of story already written. Alas, here I am to bring my own.

XXX

Thomas plummeted from his dreams as though he had jumped, landing hard and with a thud that might have been his heartbeat. He came awake sharply, fully-alert in half a second, lying on his back in the slippery sand of the Scorch. All around him, the night was quiet. There was no clear indication of what had woken him. He lay still for a moment, his eyes closed and his ears perked as he absorbed his surroundings.

The fire had long ago burned out but a whisper of moonlight peeked through his lashes. The desert air was cool, the endless heat of the ruined sun tucked down on the other side of the planet. He almost shivered, but tried to remain still—to stay on the cusp of sleep. They had so little time to rest and he needed as much as he could possibly get. He shifted a little in the sand, alleviating some pressure in his back that he hadn't realized was building.

Then, he heard what must have woken him. It was a tiny sound, distant if not muffled. It sounded like an animal, something small and in pain. His mind supplied him with the flashbulb memory, a snippet of image, the vision of a rabbit being torn apart by a hunting hawk. That's what it reminded him of.

Thomas lay still, trying to decide if it was a threat, if they needed to get up and run for their lives, or if it was only a fact of the desert. Animals had to eat too and there had to be animals here. There had to be something out here besides Cranks. He listened, eyes closed, breathing slow, but the Scorch was quiet save the quiet snores of his companions. Then, just as Thomas had almost drifted back to sleep, the sound came again. It startled him in its suddenness and his eyes snapped open unbidden. It was _close_.

His view of the sky was blocked out by the overhang of rubble that they had used for shelter for the night. The large silver orb of the moon hung somewhere to the west, smiling down on them. The brightness of the almost-full phase practically blinded him despite the shadows and Thomas blinked quickly, his vision adjusting from sleep-dark to night-dark. He turned his head slowly, first to his left.

A few feet away, he saw that Teresa was lying on her back. Her hands were folded on her belly, her white skin aglow in the moonlight, her hair spread out like rivulets of spilled ink on the sand. Thomas could make out the glint of the moonlight on her open eyes. She was lying there too, listening. Thomas almost spoke, but her crystalline gaze turned abruptly to him. Her face was pinched, frustrated rather than frightened. Those emotions made Thomas pause.

The sound came again, stifled, more like a sob than an animal’s cry. It was impossibly close—here, in camp with them.

Thomas turned his head to the left then, seeking out the source.

Newt slept on his side. While everyone else used their packs as makeshift pillows, Newt always wedged his against his bad leg, elevating his knee from the surface of the sand. Thomas had noticed Newt's limp—of course he had—but he hadn't brought it up. With everything going on, there hadn't seemed time. He believed that Newt would say something, would ask for help if he needed it, would tell them if he couldn't go on. However, Thomas should have known better.

Newt was strong and he was capable. He was as determined as any of them, but he had one weakness—to see himself as a burden. Newt took care of the other Gladers, he tended injuries, he made hard calls, and he stuck to his guns. He followed Thomas into the Maze but was quick to stand beside him. Newt would never complain, would never say it was too much, would keep giving and giving until he had nothing left.

Curled on his side on the sand, Newt had one long-fingered hand pressed over his nose and mouth. His dark eyes were clenched shut, his jaw gritted with tension that thinned his lips, his throat catching the light as he swallowed viciously. His messy blonde hair flopped over his forehead and stuck to the sweat beading at his temples. His skin looked like paper in the moonlight, thin and brittle and aching. His blue veins stood out along with a band of red sunburn on his nose. He looked as worn as Thomas felt, as ragged as the rest of them.

However, Newt couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t find even that little shard of peace—not with his leg.

Newt’s fingers were bone-white where they pressed into his cheeks and lips and nose. He was clearly doing all he could to stifle the sounds slipping from his mouth, to keep from waking the others, to stop his suffering from cutting into the little time they had for sleep. His free hand was low, clawing into the material of his pants over the region of his knee. Occasionally, his slim fingers worked to rub out the agony in his shattered leg, but that only brought a renewed wave of muffled pain-filled sounds.

Thomas flicked his gaze back to Teresa, but she purposefully turned over. She kept her back to them—either to give Newt the meager appearance of privacy or to demonstrate to Thomas that she wasn't getting involved. Her back rose and fell as she breathed, her dark hair whispering as it slipped down her shoulder.

Thomas glanced back at Newt, watching as the young man tried again to work at his leg only to hastily swallow a whimper of anguish. Maybe it said something about Teresa that she was able to turn away—to give Newt his privacy, his pride, his wish not to bother them—but Thomas couldn't just lie there and pretend he didn't hear Newt _whimpering_.

Slowly, mindful of the others, Thomas sat up and scooted closer to Newt around the remnants of the fire.

Newt's pain was so intense that Thomas could almost touch him before he noticed.

“Bloody h-hell, Thomas,” Newt bit out. He was quick to snatch his hand away from his mouth and leg, digging in fingers into the sand in the picture of innocence. Only his wet dark eyes and swollen bitten lip gave him away. “What are you doing up? You should be sleeping.”

“I heard you,” Thomas whispered, keeping his voice soft like any loud noise might send Newt skittering away. “What's wrong?”

Newt's dark gaze glittered in the moonlight and then flashed away. He blinked quickly and swiped at his face with one hand to rid himself of any traces of treacherous moisture. “Nothing's wrong. Just a nightmare that. I'm fine, Tommy. Go back to sleep.”

Thomas should have known it wouldn't be that easy. Newt wasn't about to confess his aches just because it was dark, just because it was Thomas, just because he had been offered help. Newt was always the first to ask for a break if Teresa was struggling, to call for a meal if he saw Minho’s hands shaking with hunger, to stoke the embers at the first signs of chill, but he wouldn’t do that for himself. He would never take something for himself.

“Your leg,” Thomas murmured.

Newt tensed, one hand wandering to grip his upper thigh. His knuckles were claws, the skin stretched tight and painful over his bones, chapped by the scorching desert.

“It's bothering you,” Thomas said softly.

“It's fine,” Newt told him dismissively. Then, he changed the subject, “Another full day tomorrow. You should get some sleep, Tommy.”

Thomas regarded Newt silently, watching the way his fingers trembled where he gripped at his leg. “How can I help?” he asked finally.

Newt heaved a great breath and let it out in a rush, but he didn't try to lie. Newt was many things, but even at his worst moments, he was never a liar. “You can't,” he muttered. “It's my own bleeding fault. I'll just have to live with it. I'm fine. I can run tomorrow.”

“You won't have the energy to run if you can't sleep tonight,” Thomas said slowly. “Please, Newt. Just let me help, if I can. I'll go to sleep faster that way.”

Newt glanced at their sleeping companions, his gaze lingering on Teresa and then Minho. He looked like he wanted to do something for both of them, but then shook the thought away. He turned his attention back to Thomas. “Nothing to be done for it,” he muttered. “The bones are shanked, ligaments torn, muscles twisted. There's no real medicine in the Glade—not like I needed after…”

Thomas's heart twisted at the thought of Newt, lying up in the med-jack tent with his leg snapped in three places. “But… you were trying to rub it… would massage help?”

“Don't rightly know,” Newt mumbled. “Can't bring myself to press where it bloody hurts so badly.”

“Can I try?” Thomas asked.

Newt glanced at him, started to shake his head, and then gave in with a slump of his narrow shoulders. His golden hair flopped in his face again, hiding his damp eyes. “Don't suppose I can stop you,” he murmured. “Only… not here, away from camp. I don't want to wake the others.”

Thomas nodded thoughtfully and eased to his feet. He didn't even look at Teresa, uncertain if she was still awake or just faking it. Newt sat up stiffly, but didn't seem able to get himself to rise. He tried a few times to bring his bad leg under him and then sat back in the sand, staring out over the desert nothingness.

Thomas didn't speak, merely offered Newt a hand up.

Newt’s palm was dry, warm, and rough with working calluses. His long fingers fit easily in Thomas’s.

However, Newt pulled hard to get himself to his feet, almost knocking Thomas off balance. The shifting sands didn’t help much either, making it hard for Newt’s weak leg to take his weight. Thomas brought in his second hand to grip Newt’s elbow, steadying him. Newt kept his head down, his face turned slightly away behind his mop of blond hair. Shame colored what Thomas could make out of his moonlit expression. Thomas didn’t let go, even after Newt seemed to find his balance again. He kept his grip around Newt’s elbow wordlessly. Carefully, he helped Newt across the sand, leaving their sleeping friends behind.

“Here’s fine,” Newt murmured. There was a burnt out truck half-buried in the windblown dunes, its tailgate sticking out as a makeshift seat. It was almost level with the sand, but high enough to elevate Newt’s leg if he sat there. He dropped down gratefully, hand immediately going to the area above his knee. His dark eyes sparkled and he had his lower lip snagged between his teeth.

“Newt?” Thomas ventured.

Newt looked somewhere near Thomas’s shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. “You don’t have to worry about me, Tommy,” he said lowly. “I’m fine. I won’t hold you back.”

Thomas sank to his knees in the soft sand, resting his palm on Newt’s good knee. “Newt,” he began, but wasn’t sure what to say. “This… it’s not about you holding me back. I would never think that. I just don’t… I don’t want to see you suffering. If you’re in pain, I want to help. You’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you?”

Newt didn’t argue. It was accepted that Glade Mother Newt took care of everyone. He brought food to those in the Slammer, he talked to the Greenies, he sat up with people who had nightmares, he waited for Minho to return from the Maze, he brought blankets to Thomas when he slept against the wall, he watched over Teresa while she lay comatose at the mercy of her inexperienced caretakers, he mourned Alby…

It surprised Thomas suddenly to realize that with all that Newt did, Thomas couldn’t think of anyone doing the same for Newt. Anytime Thomas woke in the night, startled from his dreams by nightmares he could only half-remember, he found a friend in Newt. He hadn’t really considered why Newt was awake in the first place.

“Tommy?” Newt asked softly.

Thomas was pulled from his musings, aware once again of his hand resting on Newt’s knobby knee. Newt’s skin was warm even through his pants. “So,” he said with forced cheer, “where should I start?”

“You don’t have to,” Newt began.

“I’m going to,” Thomas insisted and then put on his best impersonation of a med-jack. “So, tell me where it hurts.”

Newt huffed a little laugh and cast his hand from the middle of his thigh down as far as he could reach. “Take your pick,” he muttered.

Thomas glanced at Newt’s face one more time for permission and then placed both his hands on Newt’s bad leg. He started at the middle of Newt’s thigh, probing the muscle gingerly with the tips of his fingers. He listened to Newt’s breathing, trying to keep track of where he hissed or winced or tried to pull away completely. In response to each, Thomas either pressed a little harder or lightened his touch.

He mapped the length of Newt’s leg, finding that he seemed to have the most pain at his knee and calf. The muscles in his thigh and the ligaments in his ankle were stiff and sore, probably from limping to support his injured knee in the soft sand or just from running so much in general. Thomas framed Newt’s knee in his palms, fingers pressing lightly around it, and Newt hissed expectantly in response.

Thomas looked up into his friend’s face. “I think I can help,” he said, “but it’ll probably hurt. You’re really sensitive.”

“Some people would say that’s a bloody good thing,” Newt bit out.

Thomas cracked a smile and started just above the midpoint of Newt’s thigh. He had felt a large knot of inflamed tension near there, but he didn’t want to start right on such a tender spot. Half the aspect of massage was just getting someone to relax. Thomas wrapped his fingers around the curve of Newt’s thigh, slightly lifting his leg so he could get underneath it, and pressed his thumbs to the top. When he felt Newt’s muscle tremble to support the weight of his leg, Thomas carefully maneuvered his knee under Newt’s foot to give him a place to rest.

Newt watched, his heart bottled up in his throat, as he allowed Thomas access to the most painful and vulnerable part of his body. He could feel Thomas’s warmth through his pants and was hyper-aware of how close his friend was to one of his most shameful secrets. He hadn’t told Thomas more than the party-line about what happened to his leg and he wasn’t ready to bring it up now. Instead, he watched silently as Thomas kneaded the muscle in his thigh, working in small circles as he drew closer and closer to the knot of flaring pain in the middle of Newt’s exhausted leg.

When Thomas’s fingers lightly touched down on the knot, Newt swallowed a groan of pain. He felt it pop and grind beneath Thomas’s thumb, sparkling like an ember. Though each press sent a flare of anguish through Newt’s leg, whenever Thomas lightened his touch and then returned in a circle, it felt a little bit better and a little bit smaller. Thomas was careful not to spend too much time working on the knot. He kept his pressure on it fleeting, always circling back after paying attention to the less-achy part of Newt’s thigh. 

Slowly, he felt some of the tension bleed from Newt’s body. He rested a little more of his weight against Thomas’s knee, relaxing as some of the pain ebbed. Before long, the large knot in his thigh was almost completely gone. It didn’t even hurt when Thomas dug his thumbs in deeply. Newt breathed out and realized that he had been gripping the sharp tailgate hard enough to leave a dent in his palm. He forced himself to relax, to let Thomas work. Already, Thomas had proven more capable than Newt himself at soothing the ache of his splintered leg.

Thomas moved his hands down, keeping contact as he framed Newt’s knee. He rubbed experimentally, having learned already that it hurt Newt the most. As expected, Newt tensed again when he touched it. His knuckles went white around the tailgate’s edge. Instead of tackling the knee now, Thomas went lower. He carefully tugged off Newt’s worn boot and cupped beneath his foot supportively. He didn’t dare glance up at Newt’s face, a little worried about what kind of expression his friend would be wearing.

“Tommy?” Newt whispered.

“It’s okay,” Thomas assured him. “I’m just going to work on your ankle a little, okay?”

“Okay,” Newt relented despite his paranoia over his filthy socks.

Thomas held Newt’s foot in his hand, his thumb aligned with the jutting bone of Newt’s ankle. The sock slouched low on Newt’s foot, allowing Thomas to touch his skin without barrier. Newt’s flesh was soft and warm, distracting in a way Thomas hadn’t expected. He ran his thumb over that patch of skin, over the bone, over the whisper of raised scar that he felt. Newt’s toes curled at the caress and Thomas caught himself.

Carefully, Thomas began to manipulate the joint. He rotated Newt’s foot, feeling the ankle click and snap in his palm. The movement, thankfully, didn’t seem to bring Newt much pain. Thomas rubbed his thumb into Newt’s ankle and higher, working his fingertips into the muscles of his calf down to his Achilles tendon. He didn’t notice that his other hand was mirroring the motion, digging deeply into the sole of Newt’s foot, until Newt stifled a groan.

Thomas quickly gentled, cradling Newt’s foot. “Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Newt said and shook his head. He leaned back slightly, resting his weight on his palms. “It feels… nice.”

“Tell me if it hurts,” Thomas said. His thumb brushed over the bones of Newt’s ankle again, lingering.

“I will,” Newt murmured. He watched Thomas work, his eyes half-lidded and shining in the moonlight. His hair cast feathery shadows down his face, making it hard to read his expression.

Thomas looked away, focusing again on Newt’s twisted leg. He found another knot in the muscle of Newt’s calf and massaged it away with the same steady roundabout touches he had used on Newt’s thigh, circling and circling to soothe the pain. He felt it break, melting, and Newt let out another breath. His foot flexed in Thomas’s hand, toes curling with bliss. Thomas spent a moment longer just running his palms from just beneath his knees to the curl of Newt’s toes. Though Newt was relaxed now, Thomas knew trying to massage his knee was going to hurt. He could only hope that soothing the other aches would make that one easier.

Again, Thomas framed Newt’s knee in his palms and rested Newt’s foot on his thigh. He could feel Newt’s toes flex, tensing and relaxing by turns, where they rested on his leg. He kept his touch almost feather-light as he felt the ligaments and tendons around Newt’s knee. Newt was silent, but there was something pained in that silence—a soldier gritting his teeth, stiffening his upper lip, swallowing screams.

Thomas couldn’t bring himself to press against the lumps and bumps be felt in the joint, even to try to make them better. Instead, he found himself simply running his fingers against Newt’s knee over his pants. He rubbed occasionally, but mostly cradled the damaged joint between his palms. If anything, he hoped the warmth of his hands would do something to make Newt feel better.

After a while, Newt’s toes loosened and he let out a slow breath.

“Does it feel any better?” Thomas asked.

Newt nodded, placing his hand over his upper thigh curiously. “It does. Thanks, Tommy.”

Thomas’s hands went still, resting on Newt’s leg. “Anytime, really, Newt,” he said.

“Come up here,” Newt said. “Sit with me.”

Thomas creaked to his feet. He hadn’t realized how long he must have been kneeling at Newt’s feet until his knees popped upon standing. He groaned and stretched.

Newt snorted. “Way to go, shuck-face. Now we’ve got two limpers in our ranks.”

“I’ll be fine,” Thomas told him. “Just stiff.”

Newt tilted his head back to look at Thomas, his eyes laughing even as his mouth fought a smile.

“Shove over,” Thomas ordered.

Even though there was plenty of space on the edge of the tailgate, Thomas sat down right against Newt’s bad side. They were pressed shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Thomas felt Newt shiver at the closeness, at the heat that rolled off Thomas in waves. Subtly, he leaned in to soak it up.

“Will you tell me when you’re hurting?” Thomas asked the night around them. “Or will I have to drag you away every time?”

Newt was quiet for a moment, mulling it over. “I might,” he relented. “But it’s not easy for me, Tommy. I’ve always been the one to take care of everyone else.”

Thomas bumped his shoulder in Newt’s. “I know,” he said. “And Lord only knows where we’d all be without you to watch our backs, but… I want to be there for you too, Newt.”

Newt leaned back into him, almost pushing Thomas over. “I won’t let it get this bad again,” he conceded. “I’ll come talk to you before it gets this bad. This… it really did help.”

“I’m glad,” Thomas said.

They sat together on the tailgate, looking up at the sky for a long while. It was clear and lit up with what seemed like thousands of stars. Thomas took a moment to pick out the Big Dipper and thought about pointing it out to Newt. However, when he turned his head to say something, he saw that Newt was asleep. His head was tilted awkwardly into Thomas’s shoulder, settled there with exhaustion while his hand rested protectively on his bad leg. Thomas would have let him sleep if not for the fact that they were perched on the edge of the tailgate in full view of anyone who happened to crank by.

Gingerly, Thomas tapped Newt’s hand. “Hey,” he said when Newt stirred, “let’s go back.”

“Right,” Newt murmured.

Newt slid down from the tailgate and Thomas was quick to stay by his side. They made it back together, bumping shoulders as they slid down the dune to where Minho, Frypan, Aris, and Teresa were still sleeping. Newt flopped back into his place, tucking his bag against his knee and folding his arm under his head. He watched, eyes bright, as Thomas returned to his spot and pummeled his bag into something resembling a pillow.

“G’night, Tommy,” Newt said softly.

“Night, Newt.”

Thomas lay awake, on his back with his eyes closed, until he heard Newt’s breathing even out. Only then did he turn slightly towards Teresa and try his hardest to settle back into dreams. Tomorrow would be another hard day and he needed his rest. There was so much they needed to do, but that was a task for tomorrow. For tonight, he could sleep in peace.

XXX

Questions, comments, concerns? 


End file.
